


not a pretty girl

by somnolentblue



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Comment Fic, Community: spn_bitesized, F/M, Five Times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-17
Updated: 2011-12-17
Packaged: 2017-10-27 10:42:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/294933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somnolentblue/pseuds/somnolentblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four times Gwen almost fucked soulless!Sam, and one time she would have.</p>
            </blockquote>





	not a pretty girl

**the time they met**

So, this guy shows up in the middle of Gwen's hunt, and he's good, technically speaking, but he's also completely inept at handling people and doesn't undestand that friendly fire is a problem. Which, okay, Gwen's a motherfucking Campbell, she _gets_ getting the job done no matter what, but there are lines, and his blatant disregard of them freaks her the fuck out and she's never going to work with him again. However, if this case wraps up quickly, she just might fuck him -- nothing wrong with grabbing some fun where she can.

But then the guy's absent partner shows up and he looks an awful lot like he belongs in the family photo albums, and between the salt and the silver and the iron they finally figure out what the ever loving fuck is going on, and Sam (his name is Sam) turns out to be a) her cousin and b) a creepy fucker who doesn't have a concept of humanity, and she never wants to see him (them) again.

Except then senior ends up calling himself the patriarch, he who is in charge, and she and Christian and Mark and Arlene think this is total bullshit, but they also what to know what the fuck is going on, so they play along.

And Sam's even creepier than she thought, and she wonders how on earth she had missed the emptiness behind his eyes. She stays as far away from him as she can, because she's a Campbell but she's still a human and she's not entire sure he is.

 **the time with the flowers**

When Gwen was fourteen, her aunt Cecelia took a rotation as her hunter-guardian for a year. When Christian teased her about slumber parties and girl talk, she punched him, and he shut his mouth after that.

Except it was for girl talk, although Gwen would have incinerated her favorite gun before admitting it. It was a year of how to keep sleazy guys from hitting you (unless you wanted to get laid) and how to get them to date and dine you to keep yourself fed (Gwen ignores those lessons unless she's desperate). It was how to deal with your period on a werewolf hunt (halle-fucking-lujah for the Pill, and fuck those bastards who say otherwise) and how not to end up the target of an incubus.

"Gwen, sex happens on the job," Cecelia had said, "and that's just a fact. Fuck somebody, take them home, whatever you want. But do it because you want to, not because something makes you. And if something does make you, you're still you and you're okay, and exterminate the son of a bitch that messed with you."

And it's always someone who knows someone who knows someone who got overwhelmed by sex pollen or possessed by an incubus or what-the-fuck-ever. Frankly, ninety-nine percent of the hunts she goes on are either hack and slash or bang and burn, no freaky mind mojo or sex shenanigans involved.

Still, Gwen's not stupid, and Gwen remembers what plants to watch for and what sigils mean danger in flashing neon letters. So, when Gwen encounters the fucking sex pollan? Yeah, she torches that shit and banishes the great god Pan before Sam even enters the room.

 **the time with the demon**

Gwen's drunk. Gwen is well and truly soused, celebrating her own survival and mourning Kim's death, and then a motherfucking demon sneaks into her head and she doesn't even know until she's climbing her creepy cousin like he's a tree. And what a stupid phrase that is, she thinks as she feels her fingers yank back his hair and her legs wrap around his waist and her teeth dig into his throat.

The demon inside her head laughs and slinks along her soul, and Gwen felt less disgusting after she fell on her ass in that cave full of bat shit and came out chalky and gross and needing an entire bottle of shampoo. And how the hell did it get past the wardings that had been inscribed on her skin for years and then years again?

"Such a pretty man, our Sammy," it purrs. "I wonder if he tastes of our Lord still." It licks and nips and Gwen's getting quite elaborate in her cursing when some balding English dude wearing black shows up and exorcises the damn demon with something that's no exorcism *she's* ever heard and there's no fucking way it should work and it doesn't even invoke anything holy but halle-fucking-lujah her arms are her own again and she drops back down and pushes Sam away and what kind of fucked up bastard is he, getting ready to fuck someone who quite openly avoids him?

 **the time with the curse**

She'll do it. She thinks there's something wrong with him, deeply, profoundly twisted, but he's still a Campbell (Winchester, her mind whispers, and she ignores that nagging voice 'cause blood is blood and names are just words) and she's not going to let him die when she can save him.

Okay, any of them could save him, but it's better that it's her: Arlene's married, Christian would angst, and Daddy -- well, no one should have to fuck their dead sister-cousin's son, even if it's to keep a curse from burning him up from the inside out, another case of spontaneous human combustion. So, yeah, best that it's her.

And she's at the corner store buying the lube and condoms to make it all easier (and safe, her mind whispers, don't know where he's been with that spit-shined body of his, and she ignores that nagging voice 'cause if she starts to think about it she'll back out and that's not an option) when her cell rings. It's Daddy, telling her that Samuel's found a cure in one of the libraries and they're brewing it. They'll be cutting it close, but it'll be done in time. All she needs to do is stop by the creek on the way back and pick up three stones that have been washed clean by the water, and her part'll be done (could wash them yourself, her mind whispers, and she ignores that nagging voice because she would know the difference, even if no one else did, and if someone needs the cure in the future it would have been stricken out of the family books and she couldn't take the guilt).

 **the time they met, redux**

If she wasn't Gwen Augusta Campbell, if he wasn't her creepyass cousin, if they hadn't met when he was wandering around with their resurrected grandfather in tow -- if the entire world was different -- she would have fucked him.

She would have salted the bones of Jeremiah Crick and then offered to let him drop the match. They would have stood over the burning corpse together, sweaty and dirty from digging up a grave and breaking through an industrial strength casket, and Gwen would have grinned in triumph as the ghost crinkled and died in front of them.

She would have looked at him and asked. He would have said yes, and then they would have collided, kissing frantically as they shoved down jeans. She would have tripped him so that he fell onto the grass, and then she would have landed on his stomach with an oomph. She would have firmly told him to stay, and he would do so. She would have pulled off her boots, accidentally breaking one of the laces, so that she could get her jeans off and underwear down. She'd pull a condom out of her back pocket and roll it down his cock, fast and sure, and then straddle him, teasing herself and smirking as he cursed her. He'd grow impatient, grab her hips, and tug her down, and she would gasp at the sudden feel of him inside her. She'd smack his side in retaliation, but then she would ride him, grinding down as he rubbed her clit. She'd lean forward and her hands would tweak his nipples, and then she'd come, his fingers working her the entire time.

Then he'd brace himself and come up, and suddenly she would be laying back against the grass, staring up at the stars, with him in between her legs. He'd have better leverage now, and he'd fuck her hard and fast, holding her hips up and angling her as he liked. Her hands would claw at the grass, and he'd grin at her before letting one of her legs down and reaching for her clit again. She would grit her teeth to keep the scream in as she came again, and then, just as it started being too much, as the friction and pressure started to slide from gorgeous to painful, he'd come.

He'd slide out and get rid of the condom, tying it off and dropping it beside them. Then, as she was catching her breath and preparing to speak, maybe to give him her number and maybe to tell him goodbye, he'd slide kneel down between her legs and start eating her out, long, slow, delicious licks. He'd chase her taste, his tongue following where his cock had just been, and she'd shudder with the pleasure of it.

She wouldn't come again, and he'd eventually pull back. He'd look down at her, inscrutable in the night air, and she'd shiver. She'd sit up, mirroring him, and pull his face down to hers, chasing the taste of herself on his tongue. Without speaking, they'd go to their separate cars and drive off to separate motels. Maybe they'd see each other again, Gwen wouldn't know -- hunting is too unpredictable to make any kind of guess or promise.

But she would smile when she saw the grass stains on her shirt, and when Arlene and Cassie teased her about them while they sorted their laundry she'd throw dirty socks at their heads.

If.


End file.
